In Those Years
by HellRaiserAlchemist
Summary: France and Canada historical fic--from their meeting, to their separation to their eventual reunion. Later France x Canada; rating subject to change.
1. 1789

**Characters/Pairings: **France, Spain; mentions of Canada, America, and England.  
**Warnings: **Human names, some swears, un-betaed, possible historical inaccuracy. France-centric chapter.

**AN:** So...posted this over on LJ, figured I may as well post here, too. Um...not much to say, really. Anywho. Wrote most of this during my Western Civ class. I apologize in advance for any historical mistakes/tweaking I make. Most of them are accidental, some of them are going to be on purpose. For any historical tweaking I will explain why I tweaked history after the chapter. Anyways...um, please enjoy. CritCom is loved...and yeah. -runsawaynow-

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_**1763**__…I lost my son._

_**1783**__…I hurt him worse with an inadequate apology. I never thought such a feat were possible. Such hurt in those beautiful amethyst eyes…so cloudy with disbelief; so murky with unshed tears…. Such triumph in emerald eyes, never mind he had lost his favourite…he had kept mine. What was I supposed to do? Let Angleterre destroy both our sons? Amerique had called for help…for independence. I held out as long as I could, but he was so close to breaking…to giving up…to subjecting back to a cruel mother country. When no one else stepped in, I did…. I did so to liberate him…perhaps, for revenge as well. But, if Mattieu were ever to desire freedom…to desire rising up…I would be at his side in a heartbeat—nay, quicker--quicker than his brother could. …Ah, listen to me…playing favourites. What a horrible father I am…._

Francis let out a deep breath, almost akin to a sigh. His eyes opened slowly, drifting around a once beautiful room. It held beauty still, yes…but felt empty. Monotonous, almost. He was…tired. _Non…perhaps not tired. Weary? Perhaps…._

"Francis!" Banging.

The blonde jumped, eyes darting to his chamber door. He took a moment to collect himself, putting on a plastered smile as he called in the sweetest voice he could manage—a voice he'd learned as a cover-up over the years, "_Oui, il est ouvert_, 'Toni~"

Antonio leaned in, a heavy frown on his usually relaxed face. Francis' smile slowly fell, his own face mimicking a confused frown…one his friend saw as faithless, more than anything. Still, Francis' voice remained calm, "_Oui_, Antonio?"

"Francis…_mi amigo…mi amor_, it's been twenty-six years."

"Pardon?"

"French, _mi amor_…you're speaking French."

"Well, yes…I am France, _mon ami._" Golden brows furrowed in concern. He always spoke French outside of politics with the other Nations and quite often he spoke it in Antonio's presence.

"No, no…Francis. Your French is…ah…accented? Like I once spoke with Lovi…well, still do, but that is entirely beside the point." Antonio slipped in completely, gently closing the door behind him so he could lean back on it, "My point is…I know you are upset…you have every right to be, but, _mi amor_…come the tenth, it has been twenty-six years. Please--"

"Antonio!" The Frenchman gave his friend an incredulous look; one that said he could hardly believe _Antonio_—of all people!—was giving him this talk, "You cannot honestly be insinuating I turn blind to this!"

"I am, Francis…because you are suffering for it, as are your people." Antonio gave him a hopeless look, despite how calming his voice was, "Look at yourself, _mi amor_. You hardly sleep anymore. I know we do not require it as mortals do, but it does help us…your servants are worried; you rarely eat, and when you do you just…push it around, perhaps take a bite or two and excuse yourself. _Madre de Dios_, Francis…when was the last time you took that jacket off for more than a night?" He suddenly looked alarmed and Francis actually quirked a brow at him before looking down at himself.

He was wearing his uniform jacket. So what? He'd had it repaired and cleaned of blood, what was so horrible about wearing it?

"Francis, we aren't like them." Antonio's voice had lost its calm demeanor and was now as hopeless as his expression, "We are not mortal and cannot vex ourselves as they do…have you heard your Third Estate lately? Francis, they speak of blood. They want what _América _has…they want change. Violent change…change that could hurt _you_ more than anyone, mi amor." There was a pause, one that Francis spent glaring at his friend, despite knowing it went unseen. Antonio had his head down, taking the moment to collect his thoughts before he spoke up again, "He's grown up beautifully, all the same…_Matteo_, I mean. I know you saw him at the latest Treaty of Paris, but I'm sure you hardly noticed him past the tears." He received a hard glare and merely laughed, "He almost looks just like you, except for that cute curl…like the one Lovi has, _si_?" He looked up, a calm hope and encouraging smile on his face, "He's going to be strong, Francis. Just like his brother…give him someone to come home to, _mi amor_. He won't stay with that pirate forever, _si?_"

"…Pirate…?"

The question was quiet and Antonio immediately clamped his mouth shut, realizing his error. Francis had his head down, hands clenched atop his desk. He'd hardly heard the rest, and if he had it was already out of mind. He was damned stuck on the pirate. He had sworn Arthur's pirate days, those God awful days of teenage rebellion, were well behind everyone. Though…when he thought about it…in losing Alfred…but he still had Matthew…_Mon Dieu…._

"Is…is _Matthieu_ alright? _Angleterre_ has not…."

"No, Francis. _Inglaterre_ has not harmed him, at least not to my knowledge." The Spaniard looked down a moment, "I may not like _América_…but I know you still worry. I have Florida and the entire Louisiana territory watching him, _mi amor_." He gave a slight laugh, trying to lighten the mood, "Granted it costs an arm and leg to try getting a message from them; I think they are still sore about being traded off so frequently. But they like the brothers and they like that I have interest in their well-being."

"_Je vois…merci, _'Toni. _Merci beaucoup._" He shed a small smile and sat up a little straighter. It was good to hear that his imagination was likely running rampant…and there was no need to place a heavier blame on Arthur just yet. He coughed a bit, trying to compose himself a little, "But…you were saying? My Third Estate, _oui_?"

"Huh…oh!" The relief turned to confusion to realization to worry almost simultaneously, and while Francis would have normally had a slight laugh, he looked concerned.

"You were saying change, _mon ami._ How badly?"

"Bad. Very bad, Francis. They want blood…it's become a chant out there: _Liberté, égalité, fraternité. _I know my seat as a world power has declined, but I know enough to know that the passion behind those words is going to hurt you." The look turned to one of pleading, "Francis, please try to talk sense into the Second Estate. Didn't we already learn from the colonial land that taxation to fix the damage of war is a perfect fuel to revolution? _Inglaterre_, despite the deviled bastard he is, is _still_ hurting from the revolution and it wasn't even in his own home."

Francis had been quite up to that point, a thoughtful look crossing his face. He concentrated a moment, allowing the voices of his Third Estate to circulate as Antonio waited for an answer. A small smile was soon across his face once more, "I appreciate your concern, _mon ami_—"

"-oh God, Francis, don't-"

"But…perhaps…a little revolution is what Europe needs, _non_?" The smile was turning to a wicked grin, "_Angleterre_ needs to be reminded…that it is not just colonies that strike out, _oui?_"

Antonio gave him a blank look, actually worrying that the Revolutionary talk had already gone straight to his head. He sighed all the same, soon smiling away once more, "Well…if there is anything I can do to help…?"

"I am glad you offered, 'Toni." The grin widened by just a fraction, "Make sure _Angleterre_ does not try to interfere…but make sure he knows, too. Make sure he knows, that sooner or later…his people, too, will be calling for a rid of the monarch. Perhaps not to the extent of my own, but soon…they will want freedom as well."

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**Post AN: **...I always fail so hard at first chapters. Rargh. Next chapter will be from Matt's PoV and will (hopefully) be better...yeah. -nervous smile- Love you all and again, R&R/crit and comments are loved...-bows to repeatitively-


	2. 1534

**Characters: **Canada, France, America; mentions of England.  
**Warnings: **Human names, fail French (cursed web translators -shakes fist at-), un-betaed, attempts at fluff.  
**Disclaimer: **Hetalia is not mine. ...If it were Sweden wouldn't be the only canon gay nation )= And there'd be a few more females -is rather sad with the lacking number of females, despite loving the males-

**A/N: **Figured I'd go ahead and post this chapter...since, well...I don't like the first chapter that much. And I like this one a bit more. And just to give an example of how future chapters are going to be in the Post AN. ...Yeeeah. -goes back to hiding-  
Um...'fore I forget, italics stand for either thoughts or switch in language. I forgot to point that out last chapter (likely due to my fail) and in later chapters-namely Francis'- will also refer to flashbacks. ...Granted I think everyone probably figured that out orz -stops talking now-

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**Fall, 1534**

_Such strange men._

The child peeked around the tree he was hiding behind, idly ignoring the silent command from his natives to get away from these odd foreigners. He couldn't help himself, really; it had been so long since he had seen people aside from his native tribes-_Skraelings_, as they had been called- and he had been left after minor skirmishes. The fuzzy memories were pushed aside as he took in this new mankind, a slight wonder in the bright violet eyes. The first thing he noticed was that the foreigners, all of them, wore fine clothes. Not fur-for certainly, these seemed the exact opposite of fur- as he noted many of the men were shaking in the early winter chills. His focus was soon engulfed by one man in particular. Golden blonde hair, similar to his, waved down a bit past broad shoulders; the fine locks were tied back in a loose, red ribbon. Like his men, he wore a fine jacket; deep blue in colour; frill decorated beneath his chin and down the insides of the coat, lined with golden buttons going from chin to waist, where the coat opened and flowed back in the breeze. The breeches were white, almost blending in with the snow, but were covered to the knees by a pair of fine black boots that were a material the boy had never seen before. He hardly paid it mind though, as his eyes followed the pretty red ribbon—he wanted it.

As if the spirits heard his request, the wind picked up for the briefest of moments, just enough to cause the foreigners to turn their backs to it in an attempt to shield exposed flesh; just enough to pull the loose tied ribbon away from the golden waves and send it into the air. The man made a slight noise of annoyance as his hair whipped around him with the wind, but the child paid him little mind. He bound after the ribbon, chasing it a small ways before pouncing at it and successfully trapping it under his hands as he landed and partially buried himself in the snow. He let out a delighted giggle, hardly phased by the cold substance around his body and was immediately turning the ribbon over in his hands, marveling at how soft it was and brushing the snow off of it.

He was snapped, rather suddenly, from his intrigue by a polite cough and a string of unusual words laced in concern, "_Qu'est qu'un enfant fait ici? Où sont tes parents_?"

He squeaked loudly and turned a bit too quickly, whining softly when he fell back into the snow. He rubbed at his backside a moment then blinked, looking up with scared violet eyes, an apology waiting to spill from his lips though the strange foreigner beat him to it. The man leaned down, picking him up and brushing snow from his short blonde hair, looking worried, "_Je suis désolé, petit! Êtes-vous d'accord? Je ne voulais pas vous effrayer!_"

Violet eyes blinked up at him, the boy slightly startled as he realized he could understand upon contact and nibbled his lip, starting off in the language the natives had taught him, "I am sorry…I did not mean to sneak, honest!"

"Oh, so you do speak French?"

"…What is French?" He blinked again, confusion evident on both faces. The man was soon smiling again all the same, walking a bit further from his group without giving them much warning.

"I see…you are one of us, child. Tell me, does this land have a name?"

"No…I do not think so." The boy looked down, thinking hard, "…The last people to come called it Vinland." He peeked back up from under slightly waved blonde bangs, "And you…you are like us?"

"Ah, yes. I am France…though you, child, may call me Francis~" He winked, laughing softly as the boy's cheeks flushed, "My company must not know what we are, _petit._"

"…Why not? My tribes know what I am. They do not mind." The curiosity really was bubbling over, especially when the man again answered with a soft laugh; the curiosity faded down to concern as he noted that a bitter sadness had reached the deep blue eyes.

"Ah...child…you are so lucky~ Your people have been untarnished by the beliefs of the monotheistic world…they speak of spirits and nature's balance, yes?" his smile softened exceptionally when he received a definite, albeit confused, nod and continued, "Across the seas lies another mass of land, Europe, and its people all follow a singular God." Blue eyes drifted to where tribes and foreigners began to mingle cautiously with one another, "…I fear soon that you may be subjected to these new laws of worship as well."

"Oh…well, if the tribes do not mind, I cannot rightly mind." The boy reasoned with such a simplistic, innocent logic that only children could obtain. An innocence that caused Francis to give another soft laugh and press a warm kiss to the boy's hair.

"You are very easy going, child. Hmm…tell me, the ones who left you titled as Vinland…did they give you a name among mortals?"

"I…think it was _Matthias_."

"I see…in my own language it would be _Matthieu_." He smiled as bright violet eyes looked up, "I rather like the name. Would you mind if I used it?" He laughed again when Matthew looked up, smiled brightly and shook his head.

As it turned out, Matthew came to realize that his people and Francis' got along very well, which made the boy happy; the last people to come had started fights with his tribes and though he had liked the others like himself…he wouldn't put his tribes in danger and had only felt a tinge of sorrow when they left. A very tiny prick compared to what he felt when Francis announced he had to return to Europe the first time.

"_Matthieu_…." Francis tried, gently, to dislodge the boy from his jacket, "_Mon fils, s'il te plaît…._" Matthew kept put, stubbornly, tears welling up in the bright eyes.

"I don't want you to! Why can't I go, too?" He made something akin to a hiss when Francis again tried to pry his tiny fists from the coat and merely reattached himself whenever he succeeded in getting one hand off. The ships were already stocked and ready to sail; they were only waiting for Francis, who was still trying to merely get out of Matthew's house. The boy had barely gotten out of bed, and Francis had a vague feeling that was attributing to his stubborn fit—the boy hated being bothered upon waking up and while Francis usually found it adorable, he really did need to be going.

"We've been through this." Francis reminded gently, taking a different approach and picking the boy up, looking relieved when he released the jacket only to latch around the man's neck, "You are much too young to take into the political world, _mon fils_." He pet down the golden hair, letting him cry against his shoulder, "When you are older, you will be free to accompany me…but until then, I must insist you stay here." He smiled lightly, pressing a small kiss to the child's hair, "Besides…I will return."

"B-but…I don't want you to." Matthew managed around hiccoughed sobs, sitting up enough to rub at his eyes with tiny fists, "I-it's going to get lonely again…."

The Frenchman hummed a bit, going back towards the bed and set the boy down to tuck him back in. Matthew held on stubbornly, his grip tight for someone as small as he was, but did eventually concede to releasing his father and settled back into his silk pillows as Francis tucked the blankets around his body, giving him a small wink, "Wait right there, _mon fils_. I have something for you~"

Matthew feared the man would leave in those few seconds and watched him quietly, a soft frown of confusion on his face as he watched him going through his belongings. While most of his things had already been sent to the ship, there were a few he had volunteered to carry for himself and, from inside a rather large suitcase, he produced something…fluffy. Violet eyes blinked curiously as Francis stood and turned to him with a smile; in his arms was a tiny ball of white fluff. Matthew almost thought it was snow, then blinked and promptly squealed in delight when the fluff moved to reveal a small head with a black nose and tiny black eyes. He made grabbing hands at it, "Papa, I wanna see!"

"Manners, _Matthieu._" Francis chided in a gentle, teasing manner and laughed as the boy practically chanted 'please' while still reaching for the bear. He crossed the small distance and sat on the edge of the bed, releasing the bear to his son, "I was going to take him back to France with me, but I think he deserves to stay here, _non_? Climate aside, he seems rather special…and the churches would probably not take kindly to him."

"Ehh? Why not?" Matthew blinked, child curiosity shining in the violet eyes. He promptly squeaked as a small voice came from his arms and looked down. The bear was looking back up, a small, insistent frown on its face and repeated itself:

"Hungry."

It wasn't until much later that Matthew finally realized Francis had snuck away in the middle of his time playing with the bear; he'd affectionately called it Kumajirou. He merely smiled and climbed up to sit on his ocean-side window, watching the port expectantly with tiny arms curled around his bear, who merely continued to lick at maple coated paws.

By 1600, France had set up a few colonies in their New World territory and two more in the next five years. 1610 was when Matthew noticed that Francis seemed on edge. Whenever he visited, he was…tired, aggravated. But, still, Matthew did his best to maintain the colonial control and steadily grew to at least give something for Francis to smile about whenever he visited. 1610, though, saw his father figure in a right tizzy. When he visited—it was September, Matthew was still just small enough he still had to stand on his tiptoes to hug his father around the waist, though Francis insisted on picking him up to hug him anyways—they hardly had time to exchange the normal, affectionate greetings before Francis launched into questions, asking him if any others like them had shown up or were around. Matthew, being the good son he was, nodded and answered honestly; there was a boy to the south who was often visited by another European. Matthew had seen him a few times in passing, whenever he traveled down the New France territories of Louisiana. The other boy—Matthew referred to him as Alfred, as his brother—had been there just as long as Matthew had and they were usually very friendly. When asked about the other European, Matthew had only given a short description before Francis had grabbed his arm and dragged him off…and for the life of him, Matthew couldn't figure out what about saying 'fuzzy eyebrows' had set his father off.

It wasn't hard for Matthew to find Alfred; he was right along the Avalon Peninsula in a new area called Cuper's Cove…playing in the water. Francis began to scold the boy, but was cut off by a startled voice to his left.

"Alfred! What are you doing?!" Matthew yelped; he set his bear down by his father's leg and went to pull the other boy out of the water, "You're going to catch a cold!"

"Awww, but Mattie, we can't catch colds that easily." The other boy squirmed out of his hold, looking disappointedly at the water, "You made me lose my fish!"

"You're worried about the fish when you could have--ALFRED, DON'T!"

Francis' attention was drawn back to the boys when he heard the shrill scream, an initial jolt of protective anger coursing through his system; it vanished in a wave of amusement. Alfred had jerked forward, hard and fast; just hard enough to send both boys toppling into the water. The French boy was staring at the other in angry disbelief…and eventually tackled Alfred back to the shore, the two soon rolling each other with Alfred apologizing between gasps of breath. For a moment, Francis worried this would be too much like himself and Arthur and he would need to separate the two; much to his amusement, Matthew soon had Alfred pinned to the shore and was hitting him on the arms, still yelling at him for getting him wet.

"Ow! Mattie, I said sorry--OW. Maaaaaatt!" Alfred eventually managed to scramble out from under him and darted for Francis' leg, crying, "Make him stop, make him stop, make him stop!" He screamed when Matthew merely continued the chase, the two running circles around Francis and Kumajirou.

"Careful, _mes fils._" Francis chided, watching them a moment longer. He smiled and soon picked Matthew up, wrapping him securely inside his jacket, "_Matthieu, _you should not be so mean to your brother."

"_Mais, papa_--" Matthew started to whine, just to be cut off by Alfred.

"Why does he talk so funny? His accent is weirder than Arthur's is!"

Francis' grip tightened on Matthew for a moment and the boy squirmed uncomfortably. He looked up from under his bangs, tugging gently at Francis' coat, "_Papa_?"

For once, Francis did not answer him-though he did acknowledge him with a soft pat on the head and by handing him Kumajirou back- and kept his eyes on Alfred, "Alfred…this Arthur…is he here?"

"Well, yeah." Alfred tilted his head, sharing a confused look with Matthew before shrugging, "He's making lunch and said I could go play for a bit."

Francis looked appalled by the information, something Matthew didn't quite understand, but did not press further. The Frenchman forced the revolted look away and smiled softly at Alfred, "I see…tell him Francis stopped by, will you? Tell him…tell him I will speak to him when we return home."

"Oh, so you're from that way, too? Well, I'm Alfred and it's really nice to meet you." The boy smiled brightly and Matthew and Francis could only smile back at him, as the man bid a fond '_Adieu, petit_' and carried Matthew home. For the trip, the boy was back to being his quiet, pleasantly agreeable self and enjoyed the sound of Francis' humming. As they reached the house, Francis sat Matthew on the couch, petting his golden waves down, "Are you hungry, _mon fils?_"

"_Oui, papa! J'ai faim…pouvons-nous avoir des crêpes_?"

Francis laughed a bit; Matthew was prone to practicing his French when they were alone, or just to be cute so he could get his way. All the same, he smiled and nodded, pressing a small kiss to the blonde waves as he headed towards the kitchen. Matthew watched after him before sliding down from the couch and following after his father; he dragged a chair over, making sure to stay out of Francis' way and climbed his way up so he could watch. Matthew enjoyed watching Francis and often chattered idly about how he hoped he would be able to cook like that one day, something that both stroked the Frenchman's ego and made him smile a small, proud smile as he promised to teach the boy everything he could.

As they were eating, Francis finally couldn't help himself and began asking seemingly idle questions as he wiped maple syrup from Matthew's face and hair, "_Matthieu…_have you met Arthur?"

"Mmm…no. I saw the settlers, but Alfred was with them." He answered honestly; he had no reason to lie after all and missed the slight scowl in his father's eyes as he focused on his _crêpes, _"I've seen him visit Alfred a few times, but I've never spoken to him. Is he a friend, papa?"

"…Something of the sort." Francis remained calm, a slightly plastered smile adorning his lips…it was soon replaced by genuine amusement as he changed the topic, "Which reminds me, _mon fils_…I did not know you were so violent."

Matthew's cheeks promptly took a bright red colour and he ducked his head, "Alfred was being mean…I swear he does it on purpose. He's always trying to annoy me." He mumbled, fidgeting in his seat and messing with the hem of his shirt, "…Am I in trouble?"

"_Bien sûr que non, mon fils!_" Francis laughed, reaching over to ruffled the child's hair, "You are never in trouble with me…though I do implore you to try getting along with your brother, even if he does persist…." He sat back and for the briefest moment, Matthew saw a flash of regret in those deep blue eyes, "It is not pleasant…to be at war with family." He crossed the table, gently tilting the child's chin so they had eye contact, "Promise me, _Matthieu_. No matter what happens…no matter what Arthur or I may say or do…promise me, you will keep each other safe."

"I promise."

"_En Français, mon fils._"

"…_Oui, je promet, papa._"

"Tell your brother, too?"

"_Je vais…."_

They finished eating in silence. At the time, Matthew had no idea what had France so uptight. He had no idea how drastically things would change…how drastically Alfred would change…how drastically he would change.

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**Post A/N: **M'kay…so, translations of French time :3 (These came from interweb translator ): please correct me if they're wonky.)

_Qu'est qu'un enfant fait ici? Où sont tes parents? - _What is a child doing out here? Where are your parents?

_Je suis désolé, petit! Êtes-vous d'accord? Je ne voulais pas vous effrayer!_ -- I am sorry, little one! Are you alright? I did not mean to startle you!

_J'ai faim…pouvons-nous avoir des crêpes? --_ I am hungry…can we have crepes?

_Bien sûr que non, mon fils!_ -- Of course not, my son!

And now historical fact time!

1: Fall, 1534. The colony of New France (modern Canada, original Louisiana territory) I am not sure when Cartier and his men actually landed and claimed New France.

2: Skraelings - the Nordic term for the natives of modern day Canada. The Danes/Nordics were the first to set foot in Canada (then called Vinland)

3: "Oh so you speak French?" "…What is French?"

I must be honest…I've always wondered how they manage to communicate with one another; they can't possibly know EVERY language (…well, perhaps they could) so…in my stories…if they have not known each other for extended periods of time, the following applies:

A) Physical contact allows a brief, elementary understanding to marshmallow/child nations (ie, Canada and America here. Chibitalia is also a marshmallow/child nation)

B) There is a "neutral" language…a "political" language, if you will.

4. Vinland/Matthias: Again, France was not the first to set foot in Canada…the Danes/Nordics were. Technically, if memory serves right, it was Leif Ericson who first sailed there and dubbed it Vinland.

5. 1600-1610; colonial settlement in New World --

1598 - Sable Island (Fr)

1600 - Tadoussac (Fr)

1604 - Acadia (Fr)

1605 - Port Royal (Fr)

1607 - Jamestown (Eng)

1607 - Popham Colony (Eng)

1608 - Quebec (Fr)

1610 - Cuper's Cove.

Cuper's Cove was the Briton's drive to lay claim in the New Land to keep France from advancing too far; from becoming a stronger power in the world; and, from taking control of the seas. Today, Cuper's Cove is Cupids.

Remember, CritCom makes me happy! Also, if you have any questions, feel free to ask! I love interaction!


	3. Summer 1789

**Characters: **France, Spain, Canada; mentions of England  
**Warnings: **Human names, possible historical inaccuracies, fail French/Spanish (;x; soz), un-betaed, darkening themes (though nothing horrible)

**A/N: **Chapter 3's up, chapter 4 will probably go up later tonight or tomorrow morning. Trying to catch up to my posts on LJ so I can start updating at the same time -sweatdropfail- orz

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**14 July 1789**

Dead blue eyes watched on, cynical amusement swimming behind the glaze; watched peasants pour in behind the French Guard; heard the strangled screams of inmates and garrison alike as they were put through, what was undoubtedly, cruel and inhumane tortures, if not death. Vague echoes of the First Estate, praying devoutly for an end to this cruel test, swam through a clouded train of thought; the prayers were drowned by a panicking Second Estate, nobles arguing about what to do and his precious, obsolete King screaming for him to return to Versailles—to help calm the growing mass of blood-thirsty revolutionists. The order was idly pushed away…too easily, almost. As soon as Francis turned away from the sight, figuring the French Guard was more than adequate enough to control the rallied spirits that sought blood, he felt pain—sharp, unnatural pain. Pain that seeped into his nerves, pulsing with every beat of his heart, driving straight to the center of his being in a motion that vaguely reminded him of a bayonet wound. He did not cry out; merely gripped the wall closest to him, a low growl escaping somewhere deep in his throat as his free hand clutched futilely where the pain centered. He'd felt the pain before, only once this severely and found a rather bittersweet smile crossing his face as he compared the pain to the permanent burn on his heart from three hundred years earlier.

That, he decided as he found the pain slowly subsiding, could be dealt with later. He slid into the back streets of Paris and trudged towards his estate. He'd felt his age bearing down on him lately, wondering if this was how mortals felt in their elder years, and had been prone to retiring to his chambers earlier than he would have liked, though he hardly slept. He spent most nights at his desk, writing what he could remember from the day-Antonio had made him promise to keep a journal, though Francis was uncertain as to why- and then feigning sleep should the aforementioned attempt to check on him.

Tonight, he did not escape though. He reached his estate as the sun was setting and, almost as soon as he had the door opened, let out a string of curses he would normally be ashamed of himself for as he was jerked inside. Had he been alert, or even remotely interested, he'd have likely pulled his side revolver and shot…though the idea was still sounding pleasant, he was glad he hadn't. Antonio had released his wrist in favour of grabbing his shoulders and giving him a firm shake.

"Francis, have you lost your mind?" The Spaniard looked absolutely frightened and Francis really couldn't help the dry, humourless retort leaving his lips.

"I should ask you the same, _mon ami._ I could have blown your brains out. Do you have any idea how much it would be to have blood removed from my carpet?" Something of his former sanity scolded him not to be so rude and at least give indication that he was joking, especially as he noted the fear darkened to outright concern and hurt in his friend's eyes; still, he couldn't bring himself to wave it off, or even make a lewd joke as he normally would. Instead he merely gave a wry smile, his tone still dry, "You of all people should know when I am joking, 'Toni. You know I would not intentionally harm you." He pressed a light kiss to the messy brown hair, trying to get rid of the concerned look. Antonio remained uncertain a moment before he let it go with a sigh.

"That was a really mean joke, Francis." He mumbled, releasing the blonde's shoulders slowly and taking a light hold of his hand, "Especially when I'm the one that has to sit at meetings and try to defend this Revolution of yours." His tone had taken it's light-hearted nature on as he pulled Francis towards his room, but the words still seemed troubled and merely caused a soft frown to cross the Frenchman's face.

" I shan't tease again, 'Toni…now what is this about meetings, _mon ami?_ Is _Angleterre_ in need of another trouncing? " He took vague note of the shudder that ran through his friend's body at the words, but paid it little mind past a fleeting pinch of worry. He wouldn't mind going to war with the Brit again…perhaps, should they draw up a new treaty—

"Francis...p_or favor, no, mi amor_." Antonio had stopped pulling him along. He hadn't bothered speaking neutral or even French, which caused Francis to quirk a brow at him. The Spaniard only resorted to full phrases when he was at home, worried, or teasing a nation he didn't like; he continued, pleading quietly as he clung to the front of Francis' jacket, "_Deja Inglaterra solo...por favor, Francisco…si Matteo y yo nunca significó nada para ti…_ _Déjalo en paz._

"_Si Matteo y yo…."_ Antonio cut off with a pitifully stiffled sob, his face buried in his friend's chest at this point; Francis could only sigh as the sight brought him down from the temporary maniac desire. He vaguely wondered why the Spaniard was so desperate to leave their common enemy out of his line of fire. All the same, he pushed the thoughts away and pressed a light kiss to his friend's hair, shifting enough to where he could pick him up.

"Antonio, you know _Matthieu_ and you mean the world to me…and if leaving _Angleterre _out of the war will make you feel better...and help _Matthieu_…then I suppose I have no choice." He was smiling lightly, a twinge of worry somewhere in his mind as he noted just how light his friend was. While it was true Antonio had generally always been much smaller than himself and a bit more frail, he practically weighed nothing. Francis merely brushed it off, reasoning that his own national strength from the Revolution was fueling his physical strength for the time.

Looking down at his friend, he couldn't help but remember how he had once carried Matthew around when the child was tired or injured. His lips twitched into a fond smile as he vaguely recalled the last time he had seen the New World brothers….

"_Papa! Alfred's doing it again!" _

_Francis looked up to see Matthew running to him, his cheeks flushed and stained with a slight trail of tears. There was dirt all over the boy's face and the front of his clothes, and some had managed to get into his hair which had fallen into an unnaturally messy state. Kumajirou was still in his arms, oblivious to the fact he too was slightly scruffed and merely licked at his paws. The Frenchman sighed, standing from his resting spot under the tree and went over to his son, trying to smooth the silky waves down a bit._

"_Doing what, mon fils_?_ Did you two fight again?"_

"_He keeps provoking the tribes and then running behind Mr. Kirkland!" Matthew whined, "And then __**his**__ tribes blame it on me!" He hiccoughed a little, tears still running lightly down his face as Francis moved to dabbing gently at his cheeks and eyes. It seemed to be a rather repetitive occurance; Alfred played a tad too rough, as did his settlers. Settlers that seemed to think everything was theirs, Natives be damned. And whenever things went wrong, it also seemed to be recurrent that they should blame Matthew until his own tribes and settlers intervened, if not Francis. The Frenchman had also taken slight note he'd started calling the man 'Mr. Kirkland' as opposed to 'Arthur' or, as he had at one point, 'mama'. _

_He stayed quiet, sniffling every few seconds, before he asked in a quiet voice, "Papa…you can tell us apart, right…?"_

_Francis blinked, "Matthieu, why would you ask such a thing? You know Ey--…Arthur and I can tell you apart." He frowned softly, concern in his eyes as Matthew averted his gaze, "Have I ever mistaken you for Alfred? I should hope I have not."_

"_Well…no."_

"_And has Arthur?" When Matthew didn't answer right away, the concern deepened and he kneeled, tilting the boy's chin lightly, "Matthieu...cher…has Arthur blamed you for something Alfred did?"_

"_J-just once…A-Alfred didn't mean to, I swear!" Matthew stuttered out quickly, looking rather worried; Francis internally cursed himself—the boy was good at knowing when he was getting ready to go off on the Brit. Violet eyes fell back to the floor, "Mr. Kirkland apologized afterwards…Alfred did not tell me what happened, but…he is getting restless."_

"_Restless, cher?" Francis tucked his hankercheif away, leading Matthew back to the shade of the tree and settled back against the trunk with his child curled up in his lap, "I am afraid I do not follow."_

"_He does not enjoy sitting still, papa…but Mr. Kirkland says it is in his best interest not to move further…not to provoke the undrawn boundries along Louisiana and Florida…yet, so he says." Violet eyes looked up, tears back on the brink of his eyes, "A…are you and Mr. Kirkland going to start fighting again…?"_

_Francis didn't feel the need to point out that a war had already started in Europe. His visits were becoming more infrequent and he didn't want to worry the children. He managed a strained smile, "I hope not, mon fils…."_

"…_I hope not, too." Matthew murred, curling up further and nuzzling lightly into the crook of Francis' neck, his eyes starting to close, "I do not like when papa is hurt…and Alfred does not like when Mr. Kirkland is hurt…especially when you do so to each other…."_

_Francis hummed a bit to show he heard, but was already petting the boy's hair, watching in amusement as the simple gesture just aided him in falling asleep._

_How innocent they had been…._

Francis sighed softly, setting Antonio in his bed and tucking the blankets around him as he used to do with Matthew. _Innocence we should have never tainted_, he thought bitterly, his eyes straying forlornly to his desk. He didn't want to write; before he could turn to the desk, Antonio grabbed his sleeve and he looked back down.

Tired, misting eyes were looking up at him and the man's voice almost reflected how old they were, "Not tonight, Francis…please, come to bed…."

Francis wavered a moment, his mind trailing down dark paths; that look…the same look Feliciano had often given him when he'd learned of the fall of the Holy Roman Empire…the look Joan had given him the night before her execution…the look Matthew gave him when he had gone to his brother's aid… . He pushed the shudder down and breathed a sigh, "'Toni, I have paperwork to do—"

"Not tonight." He repeated, quietly begging with his eyes. Well, at least he looked pleased when Francis shrugged out of his uniform…until he saw his front. The Spaniard's eyes widened and he bolted upright, "Francis, what happened?"

At that point the Frenchman finally looked over the extent of his newest scar; just below the fading burn over his heart, it almost looked like a gun wound, but stretched a bit more as though a bayonete had indeed run him through. He skimmed ginger fingers over it, looking only vaguely bothered by the sharp pain that the ghosting touch had brought, "Bastille shall forever be remembered, _non_?" He smiled, gently pushing the brunette back into the bed, "Now, _mon ami_…it is time to sleep. Lord knows you look to need it." He teased, relieved that it at least earned a slightly huffy pout. Antonio squirmed a few times and snuggled against him, just as he had when they were younger and in Rome's care; Francis merely sighed and played with the unruly brown locks until he fell into a restless sleep and was soon reminded why he had rejected the human routine lately.

_Francis held Arthur's gaze with a hardened glare. Both were injured…wounds were wrapped tight, their guards stood alert just behind them._

"_Ang…Arthur." He forced himself not to use the country's name, "Let's be honest…neither of us can go on much longer."_

_The Briton snorted, "Says you, Bonnefoy."_

"_Arthur." Francis' voice took on a tone of warning. He waved the guards out, watching them shuffle towards the door uneasily. He never once took his eyes off his younger brother, "Arthur…please, us aside…differences aside, for just a moment…the children can't take much more. Matthieu hasn't slept since we brought the war to them, and I doubt Alfred has either." To that, Arthur said nothing, so he assumed he was correct, "On the occasion they do sleep, they wake up screaming—they know what is happening outside, Arthur. They know we are at war…and it terrifies them. They do not want to harm one another and they do not want to see us fighting."_

"_Then admit you've lost." Arthur's eyes narrowed, "You've run out of troops and resources in Europe, Bonnefoy. You cannot continue without pulling more of Matthew's people in."_

"_I know." Francis stated without hesitation. A slightly shocked silence fell over the room; judging from his expression, Arthur had been expecting more of an argument, "…Which is why I asked you here…for a favour—"_

"_What the __**Hell**__ makes you think I owe you a favour?!" Arthur snapped and Francis was sure he was on the brink of lashing out, so he spoke quickly._

"_Not me, Arthur. Alfred and Matthieu."_

"…_Beg pardon?"_

"_You heard me…if…if I draw out of this war, Arthur." He paused, forcing himself to breath and slow his heart, "If I draw out…you must promise...to take care of them." Arthur furrowed his brows and the Frenchman swallowed the lump in his throat along with his pride and hatred, "You already said you wanted New France or Guadalupe…I am in no condition to take care of Matthieu." He wasn't sure how he was holding the tears in, "You, on the other hand…will be."_

"…_So you are willing to give me full control over North America?"_

"_Not entirely. Antonio is still in the war in Europe—he is willing to pull out if you return Manila and Cuba…and I give him New Orleans and my portion of Lousiana. In return, he will give you Florida,Almeida, and Sacramento Colony." Francis lowered his eyes, his lids closing slowly in a sign of submission, "You will have a majority of the Northern Americas, though, yes."_

_Arthur seemed to contemplate this for a few minutes-minutes that felt like an eternity in Hell- and eventually gave in with a resounding nod, "Fair enough. Call the Spanish diplomat in; I will send mine, and you send yours…they can draw up the treaty." Francis almost thought things were perfect, until Arthur continued, "But…I want you out of North America." _

_The Frenchman blinked, "I…I beg your pardon, Arthur?"_

"_You heard me Bonnefoy." Green eyes narrowed dangerously, "You stay out of the New World. The colonies are mine now. I do not want your influence __**anywhere**__ in them. Got it?"_

"…_I understand."_

Francis woke up with a startled gasp, sitting up immediately. He heard Antonio whine next to him, but the Spaniard merely turned over. He looked down at his friend, then around his room, almost expecting to find the Briton waiting to kill him in his sleep…he was relieved when everything was in it's place, but was soon in more pain as the voices around his nation grew louder—Louis XVI had pulled his troops out…but they weren't stopping there. The Revolution was just beginning…and voice by voice he could feel his sanity slipping into the thirst for blood.

* * *

Spanish Translations (of fail; taken from Google Translate and Yahoo Babelfish):

…_por favor, no, mi amor._ – please, no, my love.

_Deja Inglaterra solo…por favor, Francisco…si Matteo y yo nunca significó nada para ti… Déjalo en paz._ – (roughly) Leave England alone…please, Francis…if Matthew and I ever meant anything to you…leave him alone.

God, please if these are wrong, correct me! Please, please, please! I'll love you forever! And give you virtua-cookies! (the good kind )=)

…No historical notes for this chapter, sorry. Since…y'know, Bastille was the only thing that really took place. Though, if anyone's curious, the final flashback with Arthur is the negotiations for the Treaty of Paris (1763). …Other than that, yeah, no epic historical things in need of pointing out, but if you have questions, please feel free to ask!

Remember, reviews/critcoms make me happy! (Next chapter is Matt's; chapter 5 is Francis')


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